


Call of Duty: United Offensive Warlogs

by Xampz



Series: Warlogs [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 18:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16603661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xampz/pseuds/Xampz
Summary: Sgt. Robert Turner, a former World War I veteran, works as an intel comunications specialists... In other words, he reads letters from soldiers who fought in World War II and gives his sarcastic middle aged remarks on them.





	1. Sgt. Robert Turner

                “Here they are!” Shouted Edward, “Two hundred more, the way we all like!” He then proceeded to put down the box of letters.

                I limped forward, holding my weight on my cane while I grabbed the first letter. It read _Dearest Natasha. They loaded us in the trains last night…_ ‘Natasha?’ I thought to myself. “Hey Ed.” I called him. “So we’re receiving communist love letters now?”

                “Yeah, Sarge, get used to it. The Lieutenant sent a bunch of letters from all over the place. You’ll find letters from the Polish there if you search enough. We’ll have a lot of work this next few days.” I hated when Edward called me Sarge. He was one as well.

                “War is almost over in the pacific, and the Soviets won over in Berlin. Why is this letter from two years ago? Natasha will be worried.” Said I, with half a smile.

                “Well she can kiss my ass. These letters were intercepted by the italians, our Lieutenant got them back yesterday before the fascist burned them.” Ed seemed annoyed with the amount of letters.

                I limped back to the table and sitted on the chair. The one-eyed Private Jamie helped Ed carry the box to our table, and we started to share the letters. We were all broken men, defeated by the wars we fought. I lost my right leg back in 1918, during a battle in Africa. I was a Corporal back then, and was only 20 years old. 27 years later and I can still feel my ghostly leg itch.

                “Hey, Sergeant Turner.” Said Cpl. Jamie, interrupting my nostalgic thoughts.

                “You call me Robert. Here we don’t need ranks.” We really didn’t. “What is it?”

                “I got about 40 letters for each, do you want all from the same people?”

                “Yes, thank you.” They gave the lamest job for the lamest people.

                Jamie lost an eye in the battle of Normandy, and I said he got lucky. He was transferred to our “squadron” of old smelly dudes reading letters. We had to read carefully and check if there wasn’t any secret messages or if the letters weren’t from the enemies. Pathetic job. Edward was there only because of bad behavior. He punched a commander during a suicidal mission here in Italy. He got diminished to letter-reader. Jamie just joined yesterday, but Ed and I have been working for the past three years on this shit job. And I enjoy it. Numerous times I was asked if I wanted to return to my home in Maine, but I refused. Despite criticizing this job, I actually enjoy a lot reading unknown letters. It makes me feel alive again. And it’s better than the 20 years I spent on my home being served by hearthless bitches while my ghost leg itched.

                “Good night to you, I’ll be in my cabin.” Ed said grumpy.

                “Good dreams, princess.” I told him, and Jamie laughed. Ed just closed the door and probably started his work.

                “You got the job right?” I asked Jamie. We explained to him yesterday, he was a smart kid. He could have a regular life if it wasn’t for this damned war.

                I, then, lit a cigarrete and started with the earliest letter I could find.

_An entry on **Private Martin** ’s diary._

_August 9, 1942.  
Camp Toccoa, Georgia._

_More long marches tomorrow. Then obstacles with Foley and weapon training with Moody. Everyone is dead tired. Another guy got RTU yesterday. He begged the Sgt. to let him stay._

_My unit, the 506th paratrooper regiment is an all volunteer unit, I’m lucky to serve with these guys. There’s  no one I’d rather have watching my back._

_Our officers drill us continuosly. I’ve trained for months and I haven’t even jumped out of an airplane yet. The army has never had an airborned unit before, and that makes the brass nervous, and what makes the brass nervous makes us drill harder. Our obstacle course began with Cpt. Foley…_

                I stopped. ‘This is from 42? I could have sworn I have seen an earlier letter.’ I skimmed the rest of the letter to find just a boring training routine, and rearranged the other ones to get the right order. I didn’t want to read anything out of order, silly me. The earliest one was from a British guy:

_A piece of paper with **Sergeant** **James Doyle** ’s writing._

_September 2, 1941_

_Our target for today is an industrial complex inland from Rotterdam. We're holed up again in this damn yank rattletrap the RAF likes to call Fortress I. Give me the good old Lancaster any day. Although, I must say, these B-17's can take a hell of a beating and are armed with enough .50 caliber machine guns to repel the entire Luftwaffe. I just hope we never have to put that to the test. I still don't see the wisdom in it. Flying so high that we can barely see our targets (much so that we miss half the time) through enemy territory... IN broad daylight! Sheer folly I say. Even the fighters want to escort us much farther than Dover. Jerry always has lots of ME-109s ready to greet us. I am still amazed that after 22 missions, I am still in one piece. A good bit of luck I say, I hope it lasts…_

                Sgt. Doyle, huh? This seems interesting. He’s a bit too British for my taste. The next entry is also from him, and apparently it was from the same day.

_September 2, 1941_

_I think we hit the target. Unfortunately we couldn't hold the plane together long enough to confirm. I wonder if any of the others survived. A bloody waste.  
Apparently I am still alive. Luckily this was the one time I decided to wear my parachute. It's dark now and I am not sure where I have landed... somewhere in Holland. I will most likely be captured before morning._

_For me, as they say, the war is over..._

                "Apparently it wasn’t." I said as I grabbed the next letter, realizing it was from the same guy.

 _September 2, 1941._  
Somewhere in Holland.  
Around 2200 hours.  
Sgt. James Doyle.

_I said I was lucky, but now I’m not sure. Maj. Ingram from SAS (Special Air Services) and his squad of the Dutch Resistance found me stuck in a tree. They rescued me and I grabbed an MP40 from dead german soldiers so I could help them. They were on a mission to blow a Train Bridge, and I would do anything to help. Having served for a couple of years before becoming a bomber, I had some experience with ground combat, which helped me a  lot. We managed to take control of a farmhouse near the bridge and stealthly get close to it. Unfortunately a soldier I had known only as Van Dyke died, and he was carrying the explosives we would plant in the bridge. Bloody Karma. I had to do that myself, couldn’t just neglect an order from the Major. Fortunately everything occurred as planned, and just as the train was passing through, we blew that bloody bridge. After some more fighting, we finally got away from the location, and Maj. Ingram liked my skills and asked if I wanted to join SAS later… I can’t tell if I’m really lucky or really unlucky._

                “Hahaha!” I laughed as I read the last line. “Good work, Sgt. Doyle. You’ve kept me entertained. Let’s see what else we have in here.” Said I, putting away my cigarette and grabbing the next letter.


	2. 1942 - Pvt. Alexei Ivanovich Voronin

_Stalingrad, U.S.S.R._  
September 18, 1942  
Pvt. Alexei Ivanovich Voronin

_I did not believe I was going to survive this day. We crossed the Volga river under fire, many of my comrades died before my eyes. After we got into land, they handed in the equipments, a Mosin-Nagant for one, a clip of five rounds for the next. I did not get the rifle. At first it really did seem suicidal. I run all around following Sgt. Borodin and trying not to be killed, somehow I am here, writing this letter. Sgt. Borodin said that I must be really lucky or my head must be really small, and I must agree with him._

_When we got close to the Red Square, we received massive suppressing fire. Any Soviet man who tried to flee was shot insight by Maj. Zubov. But I was no coward.  I managed to grab a Mosin-Nagant from the ground on the corpse of one of my fallen comrades, and started firing back. My aim was really good, even though the Rifle did not have a scope, I could hit the enemies several meters away. The Motherland gives birth to the finest snipers of all. After getting through some buildings, I found a proper sniper, so I started taking out their MG42s. My comrades advanced and we started taking ground slowly._

_We finally found Maj. Zubov again, and reached a Train Station in a strategic point. We were ordered to take it back and secure it. Around my neck I had my Scoped Mosin-Nagant, and in my arms I held a PPSh-41, my preferred Soviet Machine Gun. After assaulting the nearby buildings, I switched to my Rifle so I could take out the MG42s that were once again holding my comrades. The spots were being taken one by one. I ran to the last spot on the MG42s and used it, with my comrade Makarov helping with the reloads. After many minutes, the remaining fascists ran away and we took the Train Station, and we have been helding it for a few days, but soon we will move up through the sewers._

                I finished reading the letter, then left it in the table, getting ready to grab another one. Jamie was passing by and looked at the letter.

                “You know Russian?” Asked him.

                “Well, I am a communications specialist. Plus you have a lot of time to learn when you don’t have better things to do.” I said, pointing to my missing leg.

                Jamie was visibly uncomfortable.

                “It’s ok Jamie, I learned many things, including how to read British and Canadian.” Jamie laughed. “Now, if you excuse me.”

                “Of course Sarge!”

                “Call me Robert.”

                After Jamie left, I got the next letter, and to my surprise it was to “Junior Sergeant” Alexei Ivanovich Voronin. He was promoted to the equivalent of Corporal.

 _Stalingrad, U.S.S.R._  
November 9, 1942  
Cpl. Alexei Ivanovich Voronin

_I got promoted one rank due to my sniper skills, they said, and Maj. Zubov congratulated me. I was really proud to serve the Motherland as I could. I believe he wanted that after seeing what I did at the Train Station, but I will not ask him about it. Our job, this time, was to cross the streets to a strategic four-store building where me and the other snipers could disable their troops more efficiently. On our way we would meet with Sgt. Pavlov and his group, which would help us. We took a shortcut into the sewers, which would lead a block away from the house. I went along a path on my own. The fascists were patroling on the sewers too, but they were not expecting my quick and aggressive action. I used my PPSh-41 during the whole travelling, afraid that my Mosin-Nagant would get even more dirty._

_When we met Sgt. Pavlov, he was almost ready to engage. Since he knew of my abilities as a sniper, he told me to eliminate any heavy machine guns that were far away in the house so we could storm it. He told Pvt. Kovalenko to run and draw fire so I could do my job. The brave comrade run as if his life depended on it, but thanks to me, it did not. We eventually got closer and I asked for three of my comrades to flank the house from the left, where I saw a door, so we could take it. And so we did. We managed to capture the house in just a few minutes, with most of their MG42 operators having already been downed by me._

_After that, however, we received information that the house was going to be heavily assaulted by german forces. They were not going to let us take that strategic point so easily. For many hours we fought, consuming every bullent from the MG42s they were using and all of my Rifle ones too. Then we focused on the fighting inside the house.  Me, Sgt. Pavlov and the other remaining comrades managed to keep hidden in blind spots from the door, shooting every enemy that appeared from our position. Eventually they would throw grenades, but we would quickly kick them back at the fascists. I had never been so happy to hear tanks before they arrived and expelled the last remaining enemy forces. By securing this point, we finally can put an end to Stalingrad’s stand._

                “Wow” I let out, after finishing the letter. “I’ve read many letters about the battle of Stalingrad, but they weren’t as in depth as this one. Hey Ed!” I called him, as I saw he getting out of his cabin to get a can of beans. It had been just a couple of hours since we started work, and I was starting to get hungry too. “Give me a bowl of those beans, share them with a comrade.”

                “Psst. You’re reading the Soviets letters again, aren’t you?” He responded.

                “You know me. Now get here and let’s eat before I start calling you comrade Ed.”

                “I hate you.”


End file.
